And I think—I hope—I give him something, too. Ronan doesn’t need to change for me. I’d never say he isn’t enough. And I would never, ever lie to him like that awful Gwen.
It’s still early. I keep reminding myself of that. I need to be cautious and take things slow, because it’s not just my heart on the line, but Haley’s, too.
When I find myself fantasizing about sparkling rings and white gowns and my stomach swelling with new life, I remind myself—there’s no rush. Things will happen if and when they’re meant to.
But I can see it so clearly.
Me. Haley. Ronan. Murphy. And maybe, one day, another child to add to our family.
We could fix up my place and live here. Or Ronan could take the most important parts—the piece of the doorframe with Haley’s measurements, the section of railing Haley and I etched our names into, maybe even the little door to Haley’s closet nook—and make them a part of his house, instead.
We would take trips together. Spend weekends skiing. Summer would be hikes and Little League and barbecues out back with all our friends.
I can picture Ronan as his hair turns silver and the lines in his face grow deeper. I can imagine him insisting I’m beautiful, no matter how old I am.
And I can see him being a great dad to Haley. Supporting her. Cheering her on when she graduates. Walking her down the aisle when she eventually gets married. Teaching her what a real man is, and that she doesn’t deserve anything less.
But there’s no rush. I just need to keep reminding myself of it.
If Ronan and I are meant to be, it’ll happen when the time is right.
“No?” Ronan asks with a teasing smile. “Are you saying my massage skills are lacking?”
“Of course not,” I reply quickly. “Trust me. Your skills as a masseuse are excellent. But I’m just enjoying this.”
His expression softens. “So am I.” Then he kisses me. “Waking up with you snuggled in my arms…” His lips come to mine again. “It was amazing.”
I trail my fingers through his hair. “What about last night? Was that amazing, too?”
He shoots me anare you kidding melook. “Do you even have to ask? Last night was…” His brow wrinkles. “Amazing isn’t a strong enough word. Incredible? Unforgettable? Sublime?”
“Sublime?” I giggle. “Really?”
He traces his finger down the line of my jaw. “Absolutely. Being with you was beyond anything I could have imagined.”
Joy fizzes up until I’m breathless from it. “I feel the same way.”
We both fall silent after that. But it’s not an awkward silence. It’s a comfortable one, like we don’t need to talk to understand how the other is feeling.
I let my gaze roam across him, appreciating the play of light and shadow on his muscles as the early morning sun hits them. Though the curtains are shut, I didn’t think to close the blinds last night, so the room is filled with a warm, golden glow.
While I’m looking at him, Ronan gently trails his finger across my face, almost like he’s memorizing each line and curve of it.
I’m not sure how much time passes while we just lie here, luxuriating in each other. Long enough for the room to brighten. Enough for my stomach to wake up and start rumbling. Long enough to be able to see the sprinkling of freckles that dust Ronan’s nose; or, as he describes them, a gift from his Irish ancestry.
But when my stomach decides to make its hunger known with a loud grumble, Ronan’s eyes widen. Then he reaches between us and splays his hand over my belly. “Why didn’t you tell me you were hungry?”
“I wasn’t before,” I reply. “My stomach just woke up and started talking.”
“Started talking?” He smiles. “Is that something you told Haley?”
“I used to. When she was—I don’t know, three or four?—she got it into her head that there was a monster in her belly. And that’s why it was making noises. So I explained that it was her stomach talking to her. It would say things like,Good morning,Haley. I’m hungry for oatmeal with strawberries today.Or it really wanted pancakes.”
Ronan chuckles. “I like that.”
“Except I didn’t really think it through in the long term. When she got older, she’d try to use it to get what she wanted.” Pitching my voice up to imitate Haley, I continue, “Mom. My stomach says itneedschocolate chip cookies. With ice cream. And syrup. Can’t you hear it? I don’t think it’ll let me go to sleep until I get some.”
“And did you listen to what the stomach said?” he asks with a smile. “Or did you say that the message got mixed up in translation?”
